


song of joy

by janie_tangerine



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Infidelity, JUST NOT THE ONE ELIZABETH HAD FIGURED I GUESS, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, References to Paradise Lost, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wedding Night, but we def. stan the creature, in this house we DON'T stan victor frankenstein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: That black mouth of his quirks upwards again. “Let no one say I am so inhuman I would not accept,” he says. A rough, cold hand goes to the side of her face. “With grave aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed a pillar of state; deep on his front engraven deliberation sat and public care; and princely counsel in his face yet shone, majestic though in ruin: sage he stood, with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear, the weight of mightiest monarchies; his look drew audience and attention still as night or summer's noontide air,” he recites, putting feeling in it, and it feels as if it came straight from his soul, as if he feels what those words mean right to his core, and no, there is nothing inhuman in it now, is it?What has Victor done? How is his fiend someone who can understand those words so deeply and so strongly?





	song of joy

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this was writthen for the 19th century literature kinkmeme going around at corsetsandlemons until the 23rd of June and so.. for something else no one probably expected, have my second fill, which was for _I want frankenstein meets a paradise lost kink where dr frankenstein's lady friend gets all hot and bothered for how frankenstein's monster can recite paradise lost perfectly_. I mean guys... I have issues with both that book, the creature's paradise lost obsession and so on and the prompt was perfect, so have some extra porn. I regret nothing.
> 
> Obviously everything belongs to Mary Shelley, the title is from Nick Cave for reasons, I'll saunter vaguely downwards for good now. /o\

Elizabeth _would_ have screamed, at the sight.

Of everything she could have imagined finding in her bedroom on her wedding night, surely such, such a — _creature_ , was not it.

She does not know how to describe him otherwise — tall, so tall, more than seven feet if not more, pale yellow skin showing the thin tendrils of his veins and arteries under his torn clothing, black raven hair matching equally raven lips and watery, almost white eyes staring down at her.

She does not know who he is, for that matter, but the way he looks at her, _he_ seems to know who _she_ is.

Oh.

He has to be Victor’s _fiend_ , doesn’t he, and it’s with that in mind that she parts her lips, ready to scream — he did warn her, he did tell her that he couldn’t be with her until he had dispatched of such a wretched being, and he did tell her he — _it_ — was dangerous, but she can’t because then a moment later a large, rough hand wraps around her throat, and she looks up into the creature’s ghastly, ugly face, as his black lips sneer.

Elizabeth knows, in her heart, that he means to kill her. She does. She wishes she could call for Victor, for her beloved, for her husband, for —

“Farewell happy fields, where joy forever dwells,” the creature whispers under its breath, its voice almost sorrowful even if its eyes are _determined_ , “hail, horrors,” he concludes, and —

 _Farewell happy fields_ …?

Right now, Elizabeth decides, she’s only asking because she wants to live. Maybe a bit longer. Maybe enough to call for help.

“Is that _Paradise Lost_?” She croaks, barely audible as those fingers press on her throat, and then a moment later they’re gone and the creature is looking down at her as if it had expected anything but _that_.

Elizabeth could scream now. She could call for help.

But she doesn’t. Not when its _determined_ look from before turned just now into — she doesn’t know _what_ it is, but it’s curious and _sorrowful_ and somehow it does not quite match with what she had imagined it would behave like.

“I see,” the creature says, “that my creator has chosen a well-read bride.”

Oh.

His voice is not so hideous to the ear, admittedly.

He also does not… sound _so_ monstrous as he looked, admittedly.

Elizabeth looks up at him, finding the courage to.

“It… is my favorite poem,” she says, cautiously, not lying. It is. It has always been, even if she’s never told Victor — somehow it never seemed something worth discussing.

“How queer,” the creature replies, his black lips curling in a hint of a smile that does not reach his eyes, “it is mine as well. But I imagine our… common acquaintance has not seen fit to inform you of that, has he?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. He’s still dangerously close. She knows he came here to kill her. She knows Victor is out there looking for him. But the _way_ he said those lines, resigned as if he knew that he would have to say goodbye to any happy fields he ever set foot in, as if he welcomed the horrors that her death would have brought with because there was no other choice —

“I imagine,” she says, “that before you do what you came here for, you might not grace me with letting me hear some of it one last time?”

She doesn’t know _what_ is possessing her to ask this — is it to buy time? Is it because she desperately wants to hear _that_ voice reciting those lines again, or any other lines? Is it because she shouldn’t want that, but she _does_ , somehow?

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Here at least we shall be free,” the creature says slowly, his voice going even lower. “The Almighty hath not built here for his envy, will not drive us hence: here we may reign secure, and in my choice to reign is worth ambition though in Hell: better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”

 _Oh_.

He has a deep, velvety voice, soft in all the ways his features are not, angular and sharp and misshapen, but now that those words leave his mouth they somehow seem not so monstrous anymore — if Victor made him, she can see why he chose all the singular parts of him, because it’s the _fit_ that does not quite match, but in themselves? The hair, the straight nose, the strong arms and hands, she can see it, she can, and somehow she can imagine why _that_ would be his favorite poem.

She should probably ask him how he has read it in the first place.

But when she opens her mouth, that’s not what comes out of it.

“Will you — give me more?” She asks instead. It shouldn’t be her last wish, should it, and she should scream, she should, but —

That black mouth of his quirks upwards again. “Let no one say I am so inhuman I would not accept,” he says. A rough, cold hand goes to the side of her face. “With grave aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed a pillar of state; deep on his front engraven deliberation sat and public care; and princely counsel in his face yet shone, majestic though in ruin: sage he stood, with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear, the weight of mightiest monarchies; his look drew audience and attention still as night or summer's noontide air,” he recites, putting _feeling_ in it, and it feels as if it came straight from his soul, as if he feels what those words mean right to his core, and no, there is nothing inhuman in it now, is it?

What has Victor _done_? How is his _fiend_ someone who can understand those words so deeply and so strongly?

“But,” he says, “do forgive me. I have not chosen the right words for this occasion.”

Elizabeth gives him one small, determinate nod. His hand doesn’t feel revolting against her skin. Not anymore.

“She what was honour knew, and with obsequious majesty approv'd my pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven and happy constellations on that hour shed their selectest influence; the earth gave sign of gratulation, and each hill; joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub,” he recites, and now he sounds maybe slightly amused at her plight as she feels blood rush to her face, and now his eyes don’t look so inhuman anymore.

He does not look like a fiend, she thinks, and this when he came here to _kill_ her, hasn’t he?

She doesn’t know what kind of sound just left her throat at hearing those words flow from his lips, but it surprises him more than her, she thinks, and it surprises _her_ , too. Then again, Victor never was one for _poetry_ , not to the point of reciting it like this. Of course he wasn’t, he’s a scientist, she’d have never expected it of him.

But —

Elizabeth’s right hand has reached out, touched the creature’s left wrist softly, before she can think on it again and take it back.

“And may it be that you have more of those words?” She asks, softly, and at that she can see that she’s taken him by surprise. She can also see that for a moment he looks suspicious, as if he’s wondering if she’s buying Victor time, but as shameful as it is, she’s not really thinking of Victor right now.

He moves closer. “Her rash hand in evil hour forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat: Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat, sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe… that all was lost,” he recites, his voice suddenly turning sad and bitter, as if he feels _that_ down in his bones, too, and Elizabeth has to wonder, has to ask —

“But is it?” She blurts. “Is it really?”

His black lips curl into a joyless, fake smile. “I might have gone away and disappeared with my Eve,” he explains, “if your husband had not destroyed her and gone back on an agreement we stuck. He made me,” he goes on, “such as God made Adam. And then he decided it was not worth the effort.” He takes a step closer. “I vowed to him that I would make him regret his decision,” he says, “though now I am loathe to fulfill that one vow.” His thumb runs across her cheek.

It’s cold and rough. Elizabeth doesn’t hate the feeling of it.

Not at all.

“But what if I told you,” Elizabeth says, wondering what madness has just come upon her but unable to stop herself, “… her virtue and the conscience of her worth, that would be wooed, and not unsought be won?”

Those watery eyes widen at once, strong hands grabbing her wrists, pushing her against the wall, but not hard enough to hurt.

“You are not saying that someone such as me might _win_ you,” he says, sounding like he cannot fathom it.

Victor is still away, Elizabeth thinks. Victor left to kill him before confronting him and whatever harm he brought to his… his Adam, she supposes, and Victor should have maybe considered doing so.

He’s not here.

He should have been with her.

He would rather be out trying to find his Adam and kill him, instead.

An Adam that can recite _that_ poetry so sweetly and so meaningfully, showing that he understood it to the core. She wonders, _is he really such a beast?_

“You are mistaken,” Elizabeth says, nodding at her nightgown, which has slipped down to uncover one pale breast, “because you might have won me already and you should claim your prize. After all… your God thought that hunting you was more important than sharing my bed, hasn’t he?”

They stare at each other for one long, long moment, time stretching, and for a moment she thinks, _will his hands go back to my throat_ , they would if he was the monster Victor thinks he is —

“O fairest of creation! last and best of all God's works!” He almost exclaims, and then his mouth is on hers, without asking for permission, as his hands reach for her hips and lift her as if she weights nothing, and his lips might feel chilly but they’re nothing repulsive — he has a mouth just like anyone else’s, and it kisses hers like Victor’s had but harsher, more strongly, more urgently, and she feels weightless in his grip as her hands tremble and cover the skin on his cheeks.

It’s chilly, too, getting warmer under her palms as she touches him, and she can feel the sutures and how those pieces of skin fit together, but it’s not a bad fit. He kisses her harder, slamming her against the wall, once, twice, and he _could_ have killed her like that but he hasn’t, and by the time he tears his mouth away from hers, he holds her up with just one arm as the other rips open her nightgown.

“.. Creature in whom excelled whatever can to sight or thought be formed, holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!” He almost sobs against her mouth, and Elizabeth moans shamefully (or maybe not?) as she _lets_ him do away with her clothes, as she lets him drop her on what should have been her and Victor’s bed but is _not_ right now, as he rips off his old, worn-out trousers that look a bit too tight on him, and she parts her legs as she sees that as made of dead parts as he might be, certainly he’s not such under his waist. Not that his _voice_ isn’t alive in itself, not that his eyes aren’t as he leans down on top of her, not that his hands aren’t trembling as they grasp her face in between his palms, and oh, he _could_ crush her head, but instead he moves one of them right in between her legs, his mouth parting in surprise for a moment as he finds that she’s wet in between her legs, so, so _very_ wet, and she had tried to not think about it because she should only be for her husband, for her beloved, for her intended, but now, now she’s _not_ —

“ _Please_ ,” she blurts, and then he’s inside her with one rough, single thrust, his arms shaking on the sides of her head, but somehow she had expected it, and she whispers, “ _more_ ,” and —

“How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, defaced, deflowered, and now to Death devote?” He whispers against her mouth before claiming it with his, again, and again, and _yes_ , it’s true, she’s lost and defaced and deflowered now with each single one of his thrusts, but he’s suddenly burning hot around and inside her, and her tiny hands grasp at his shoulders barely feeling those sutures under her fingertips — those strong, wide shoulders, over arms that could lift her so easily and could have crushed her so easily and now are holding her close, maybe somehow rough but not enough to really hurt.

“So absolute she seems and in herself complete, so well to know her own…” He moans, pushing down inside her, hard and hot and searing and like any other man might have, she thinks, fleetingly, and she moans again, and again, her mouth searching for his before whispering that she needs more, and _more,_ “…that what she wills to do or say, seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, _best_.”

Her legs cross behind his back, barely touching because of how huge he is, and when she opens her eyes and finds his she finds them wet, and as she reaches up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek, that yellow transparent skin showing the delicate, red veins, the tiny sutures at his temple, she thinks his eyes look so very, very _human_ , that she couldn’t believe she ever thought them anything else. She clenches around him, her legs pushing downwards, making him understand that she wants him to finish right where he is, inside her, where he feels still hard and hot and searing — and then she leans up again, her tongue running along his black lips, her hands grasping raven hair —

“Accuse not Nature: she hath done her part; do thou but thine,” she whispers against his mouth, and at that he lets out what feels like a cry before he slams inside her harder, and she arching her neck backwards and trying not to scream in pleasure as a wave of white, hot pleasure takes hold of her, and he’s kissing her again, and again, as he spills inside her with that one last thrust, and Elizabeth is saying _yes_ all over again under her breath, feeling like she’s floating as his hands close gently around her shoulders as he spills and spills and spills with shorter, shallower thrusts.

After, she feels the softness of the mattress under her naked back, and a large, rough hand cupping her cheek as he leans down, his lips stopping just above the shell of her ear.

“You can tell your husband,” he whispers, “that I stole his wedding night then.”

That’s when she knows he _won’t_ kill her, and she’d like to talk, but her throat feels closed and everything feels too hazy to speak, so she opens her eyes and meets again those watery, pale ones of his, and she can see he has cried.

He shakes her head, his fingers moving to her hair, caressing it once, twice, before he stands, but then he leans back down again, and whispers —

“Bear with me then, if lawful what I ask: love not the heavenly Spirits, and how their love express they? by looks only? or do they mix irradiance, virtual or immediate touch? To whom the angel, with a smile that glowed celestial rosy red, love's proper hue, answered: let it suffice thee that thou knowest us happy, and without love no happiness.”

Then he’s gone, out of the window, the same way he came in, leaving her with a pleasant throb in between her legs, soiled sheets and blood in between her legs, staining the white of the linen she’s lying on.

Somehow, that matters none.

 

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to check the other fills (for now) or prompt something more, the post is open [here](https://corsetsandlemons.dreamwidth.org/2535.html)! feel free to take a look around ;)


End file.
